FINISHED :: Five :: Clement Lordthorn

[Onyx]

Name: Clement Lordthorn
Age: Twenty and then some
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 5
Appearance:

MARCO FISCHER

LIEK TALL AND STUFF WITH A BEARD BUT NOT REALLY A BEARD BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TO HANDLE JUST LIKE ENOUGH TO SHOW HE DOESN'T TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF BECAUSE YOLO AND THERE'S SO MUCH STUFF TO CRY OVER THAT THERE'S NO TIME TO SHAVE. OH THE HAZEL EYES OM NOM.

Personality:

MEANIE PANTS CLOSED OFF TO THE WORLD WITH AN IMAGINARY FRIEND VOICE INSIDE HIS HEAD JUST LIKE HIS SISTER AND HE LOVES HER BUT HE DOESN'T REALLY AND HE'S SCARED OF FEELS JUST SHUTS DOWN AT SAD THINGS BUT THE VOICE IS SO ANGRY IT MAKES HIM ANGRY YOU WOULDN'T LIKE HIM WHEN HE'S ANGRY HE KNOWS HE CAN BE VIOLENT SO WATCH OUT FOR HIM YOU WOULDN'T BE ALONE BECAUSE NO ONE LOVES HIM SO SAD.

History:

WASN'T PLANNED THYE HATED HIM HE WAS SAD THEY LET HIM GO OUT ON HIS OWN OH NO HIS LEG HE WAS SAD PLANNED BABY CAME ALONG HE WAS SAD NO ATTENTION FOR HIM HE WAS SAD MUMMY DIED HE WAS SAD HATED HIS DAD HE WAS SAD ANGRY WENT OUT ON ADVENTURES LALALALA I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE REAPING BECAUSE THEN I'LL DIE JUST LIKE SHE DID SO SAD.

Codeword: NO THIS IS OUR SECRET CLUB NOT YOURS
Comments/Other:

The brother of the deceased.

*** with 9B4545

I Miss You by Blink 182

[Onyx]

Odair

Hello there, the angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue[/i]
The unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Sally if we want

Appearance

The very image of his father.

Yes, he’s definitely his father’s son.

People have always said that. You take one look at him and “oh, yes, his father is Natan Lordthorn, without doubt.” Never has anyone taken a second to stop and take his outwards façade into deeper account before they judge him. But isn’t that just the way human beings work? And, of course, it is true. “You’d think he sliced the scalp straight from the father and wore it as a trophy.” Stringy, deep-rust coloured hair

[/i] clouds his vision in grease-doused curtains over his eyes.[/i] “And what eyes, too.” Without the eye contact, which he always avoids, the hazel-grey irises simply reflect his paternal genes, like the rest of him. “But how glassy, how empty they are. Natan’s eyes were so full of life.” If eyes reflect the spirit of their owner, Clement has none. After you have examined for this long, Clement’s discomfort would begin to show. Running his worn, workman’s hands through his hair, an obvious habit, he would grit his untreated, tinted teeth and clench the muscles in his perfectly sculpted, square jaw.[/i] “So hostile, can he not bear to be examined?” Clement is not self-conscious, but afraid of the fact that the longer you look, the more you might see.

“How tall and strong, just like Natan. He must be, what, six foot at least?” Six foot two, actually. And built with the strength of a bear. Defined muscles ripple in his back and shoulders, from years of work that would break a weaker man. However, this muscular build is the only thing that suggests he cares for himself. The jutting lower jaw is shrouded in the bristling shadow of an untamed beard, making Clement seem older than his years.[/i] “Though he is ruggedly handsome…” By the time you come to this thought, Clement’s deeply shadowed brow would be creased in an ugly grimace, the dark lines that already remain there like cracks in waxy, pallid[/i] stone intensified a hundredfold. The deep creases[/i] that trace sacks of purple fatigue[/i] under almond-shaped spheres become more evident as he winces, shifting around one hundred and ninety pounds from one leg to the other. “Wincing? Oh, the damage that has been done…” The mutilated calf of his right leg[/i] is the single outwards sign that Clement was hurt by something other than himself in his life. Blotchy, bubbled flesh stretches over the injury[/i] like a perfect image of boiling water suspended in time and etched in skin. Clement walks with a limp because of this one childhood accident that rendered him almost lame for years of his life.

“But now that I’ve noticed this, he looks at me with such disdain.”[/b] As soon as Clement’s imperfection are clearly noticed, the sunken, mournful face takes on a new level of being sealed from outside judgement. The suggestion of a smile that is never there anyway vanishes, Clement looks away, and limps from you, the silhouette of his striking profile the only thing he leaves behind, on your memory. Clement Lordthorn has an appearance that is hard to forget.[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Where you can always find me

[/size]
We’ll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we'll wish this never ends
We’ll wish this never ends[/right]

Where are you and I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight[/i]
I need somebody, and always this sick strange darkness
Comes creeping on, so haunting every time

Personality

You and he circle each other with hostility not unlike two big cats fighting for prey. He has always hated strangers, especially those who could fight back. Anyone mentally or physically able is a substantial threat. And you know just how to get under his fragile illusion of composure. “How did we get into this situation, Clement?” you murmur, though you are full aware of the answer, and he knows this. He’s very good at understanding what other people feel.

[/i] “Go to Hell,” he hurls back, unafraid of words that have a heavy meaning. Clement is deliberate in his choice of words and actions, and it is clear this crude message comes with a huge amount of feeling. “Now now,” you patronise him, knowing full well his stubborn attitude contributes to the regret that plagues his troubled brain, “all I did was-” “My mother never deserved anything she got,” he spits, gravelly voice breaking and betraying his true fear that what he’s saying is wrong. But Clement is forever in defence for his family, never backing down against insults directed at them. And he will protect them fiercely. You know you’ve put yourself in a situation Clement won’t overlook. Clement doesn’t ignore things like this.

He knows he was unwise to let you speak in the first place – you never fail to voice his numerous, unspoken fears. It’s not like he has ever trusted easily; never letting anyone get too close, persuading himself he can have friends but he mustn’t get too attached.[/i] But you always manage to break this hostile shell and reveal the self-pitying little boy within. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to her,” you holler, voice echoing even on the parts of his mind he tightly locks away. “You know I do,” he admits quietly, only this honest about his bad qualities when he knows there is no hope left for him. Clement blames only himself for the misfortunes of his life. From when he was old enough to understand that everything must happen for a reason, he has determined that, even though he knows not what he did, he must have done something.

“Do I disgust you?” you inquire, and even without an affirmative nod you are aware of his unchangeable feelings towards you. You show no compassion, and that repulses him, though he doesn’t understand how hypocritical he is for thinking that. Though there are times when you know he would be gentle. The wounded, weak or helpless seem to cry to him personally for help, and who is he to refuse? Those who are vulnerable, innocent, in need of help appeal to him. “So fight me.”

Clement struggles, and you watch as he contemplates all possibilities. Though it often comes to violence, he regrets many things. His breathing quickens and he begins to sweat, glancing around for any other way out. But against you, there’s never another way out. “You hate being in situations you don’t know,” you state honestly, putting his bizarre feelings into straightforward language. Clement can’t handle being lost or being forgotten. He hates not understanding and is very much aware that you have put him in a situation, in a place he can’t escape from.

“But I won’t panic,” comes the sob from his reluctant throat, travelling to you on waves of his grief, “what’s the point of panicking when you can’t hurt me?” “You always understand, Clement,” you whisper. He tenses but now that he understands that which cannot be understood, you know he won’t attack you. Clement won’t attack unless he has to. He uses violence only to his advantage. “I am but a voice in your head.” For the first time in so long, the memory of a smile glows in his eyes. But as quickly as it has come with his satisfaction when he comprehended the situation, it sputters out. “How can I get out of here?” Suddenly, he is all too reliant, a flaw that has carried throughout his whole life.

Half-dreams have plagued Clement more frequently of late, and you visit him, playing back to him his own personality so he can see what he is. And he[/color] does see, but he can’t change himself. Whether unconsciously or simply because he doesn’t want to be different, he stays the same. Imperfections in his character ring out strongly to you, and though you scorn him for them he accepts it all. You know that he knows what he does when there is tragedy, when he becomes an unreceptive shell, even more so than usual. When his eyes glaze, and he chooses not to hear you or anyone outside his mind. You know that he is so far beyond and behind help that this is the only way he handles himself. You should praise him for being so resourceful. But you smile knowingly, glad that he is so outwardly composed, and tell him, “all you need do is wake up.”[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

And, as I stared, I counted webs from all the spiders

[/size]
Catching things and eating their insides
Like indecision to call you, and hear your voice of reason
Will you come home and stop this pain tonight, stop this pain tonight[/right]


Don’t waste your time on me,
You’re already the voice inside my head[/i]
I miss you
I miss you

History

Now that you have addressed both his outwards appearance and his inwards one, you request that, before he leaves you, he realises himself why the two have come to be that way. For is one’s appearance not affected by their past? And is one’s personality anything but entirely dependent on the event of their life? Clement sighs deeply, too deep to be wistful, and shows you how he would rather not discuss a history that is no doubt unforgettable. It haunts his nightmares and is reflected

[/i] on everything in his daytime. Your words take on a softer tone, one that it fully created by a man desperate to escape the torture you embody within him, “You weren’t a planned baby, were you?” He shakes his head, bringing back the supressed memories of his infanthood, and bracing himself for what he has to say next. The only way out is in.

“No, I was an unpleasant surprise,” Clement grimaces, surprising you with the speed at which he speaks the truth. “Just the unexpected result of young love. For the first few years of my life they only took care of me with the bare minimum they were obliged to,” a cold laugh escapes him just as a whine of sympathy leaks from your pursed lips, “You would say it was cruel, if you knew me. No parenting classes, which they refused to attend, resulted in me almost dying a few times.” You know he is not afraid to admit it only because he is telling you, and you have to stay inside his head, where you follow his rules about interacting with the physical world. Clement’s history had such an effect on him that he will not mention it to strangers in the tangible world. “As soon as I was old enough to walk,” he emphasises, placing stress on the word you know has the most significance to him, as your eyes latch on to his maimed calf, “they’d let me wander about on my own, yes, even in a District with as many power stations as starving people.” Here, his voice drops to a whisper, almost inaudible, but you know what he’s going to say, “something was bound to happen eventually.”

You already acknowledge this story; Clement as a little boy wandering in places he shouldn’t. No one anticipated the force with which one tiny flare from a battery could send a child soaring backwards. Burning acid boiled his lower leg, making you wince even now as you imagine the hoarse cries of unmatchable agony that no boy should ever have to conjure in their vocal chords. “It seemed, for the first time since I was a baby, I was dependent on my parents. I was almost lame, still learning to walk. You-” he breathes in shakily, “you can’t picture it.” But you can[/b][/color] you are a part of him. Then, his tone brightens in a bitter sort of joy, “It seemed like they had finally seen some sense, and were going to stop pretending I didn’t exist in the moments between neighbours asking how I was. Clement Lordthorn could no longer be the son they never had. I very much needed my parents.” They started helping little Clement to develop, and he went to school happy and, almost, healthy. No one cared about his injury, and you know this acceptance was one of the only times in his chaotic life where he really took a moment to appreciate what he had.

“Then the second baby came along – planned – and everything changed again. My parents forgot about me once more, now with the rational reason of caring for the baby with all their love. Eternity was nurtured fully, the object of affection for all our friends.” You know this feeling, how he resented her all through her infant years. He was shoved out of view again, the invisible child. Though things soon picked up again for Clement. “But she found trouble in her school years?” you ask tenderly, not wanted to upset him further. this domain might be his mindscape but that will not stop him panicking. He nods, and tells you that she was alienated both for her height and her mannerisms, though she was not aware the second had any effect on the opinions of her peers. “And that satisfied you?”

His eyes widen in panic, thinking you’ve put him in the light of a bad person. “This is was only an initial feeling – I swear it was,” he begins to relax, his voice regretful, “I heard her crying – she spent a lot of time in the woods, running, but she was home that night and I heard her crying,” you know of his weak spot for the vulnerable, upset children who can’t defend themselves. There was no way he could leave Eternity alone. “But still you didn’t show any remorse for your first joy.” He shakes his head hesitantly and mournfully before shifting positition to show you that chapter of his life is passed and unchangeable, and the story continues.

“It was my first Reaping, when Eternity was five or so, when I realised how much my mother actually cared for me. She went out… by herself a lot, but I didn’t realise-” you regard him warily, he seems to be on the brink of breaking down. “You didn’t realise she didn’t want to die before you.” Clement’s mother took trips to the waste pits of various factories, inhaling the suffocating, smothering fumes voluntarily. “Now I was eligible for Reaping, my mother knew I could die so soon. She wanted to pass away herself before I did.”[/b] You realise how clear her thinking was – what mother would want to outlive her son, and survive only to grieve them? “By Reaping day itself, she was already gravely ill. I could do nothing but take my place in the crowd with all the other boys, while she lay at home, retching, coughing up blood and bile, while inside her body her lungs collapsed in on themselves.”

You know she died slowly and painfully, every day the screams and whoops from her room echo in Clement’s memory. It ripped his soul apart like a pack of wild dogs made from fear itself. “I wouldn’t talk to anyone. I just… shut myself off from the world.” What else could he do? “When I was fifteen, still reeling, I found myself a job in a nondescript factory, far from home and any memory of my mother. There I could be invisible, just another worker trying to lose themselves in the uniform routine of power generators.”[/b] You can tell that not once did he even consider alcohol or drugs as a relaease. “I didn’t need to,” he promises, “blending in with the other dead-eyed workers was enough to supress my emotions.”

“Your sister and father handled it differently, didn’t they?” “Yes,” you sense a mixture of fury and resentment begin to burn inside him – for himself? For his family? “Eternity was too young to understand. I can forgive her that, but my father…” his clenching jaw displays a hatred his words and tone cannot convey. “My father did the same thing he did when I was a baby, and pretended nothing had happened.” He just kept calm and carried on, and you know Clement can never forgive him for that.

His furious rage increases, and you want to stop him from hurting himself, and you, in his mind. “You can stop, Clement. I know this. You were right to feel how you felt – to do what you did at…” at Eternity’s Reaping.[/i] You can’t mention that, here.

“You should wake up now, Clement,”[/b] you command, and he goes.[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Don’t waste your time on me,

[/size]
You’re already the voice inside my head
I miss you
I miss you[/right]

[Onyx]

ALL DONE



I'm sorry for the general nonsense in this bio. I don't know what came over me.
And all the coding fails - please excuse xoxo

~Onyx

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]